


Wine for Brother Garupe

by rudbeckia



Series: Henrupe ficlets [10]
Category: Silence (2016), The Revenant (2016)
Genre: Alcohol, Dinner, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Touching, henrupe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29585199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rudbeckia/pseuds/rudbeckia
Summary: Andrew Henry is dismayed when he finds out he must attend a dinner party with the Pastor and his family, the old Catholic priest and his new assistant, a missionary. But Brother Francisco Garupe is not what Andrew expected at all. He’s handsome and intense and he’s exactly what Andrew didn’t know he needed in his life.Francisco is invited to stay over and Andrew’s room only has one bed. Will Andrew be able to hide his growing.... attraction?(Spoiler: No. No he won’t.)Set in 1800, pre-canon for Andrew and post-canon for Garupe (who obv survived, right?).Andrew Henry is living with his parents in Pennsylvania a few years before heading west to make his fortune.
Relationships: Francisco Garupe/Andrew Henry
Series: Henrupe ficlets [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1689181
Comments: 20
Kudos: 18





	Wine for Brother Garupe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theweddingofthefoxes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theweddingofthefoxes/gifts).



Andrew Henry sighed in disappointment at the guest list drawn up by his parents and presented to him over the remains of his lunch, upon demand, by their housekeeper and cook. He’d have to attend, of course, and he’ll wear his good clothes and a smile for their guests—the local priest and pastor—but he doesn’t have to like it. At least he probably won’t have to supply much conversation. Father Macdonald and Pastor Rhyne could each hold their own in a good ecumenical argument.

“How many guests?” he asked Sarah. She took back the list and counted off on her fingers.  
“Your good parents, yourself, Father Macdonald and his new assistant, Pastor Rhyne, his wife and daughter. Eight.” Sarah looked at Andrew and winked. “Miss Helena is sixteen years old. Your good mother asked that you and she be seated beside one another.”  
Andrew shook his head slowly and pursed his lips. “Can you do anything about that? Oh!” His face lit up as the idea struck. “Put her opposite me. Tell ma I said I wanted to admire her beauty.”  
Sarah grinned in response. “Well. I will do that for you. I will swap her place for the Father’s new assistant. I hear he is from abroad. European! He will probably think us very backward. Oh!” her lips formed a circle. “Do you think he speaks English?”  
“If necessary I will dredge my schoolboy Latin up from the past. They all speak Latin, don’t they?”  
“Europeans?” Sarah asked, mystified.  
“No,” Andrew said with a laugh. “Catholic clergymen.”

It was only early afternoon. Andrew had hours before he would need to don his best clothes and comb his hair as fashionably as he could and present himself in the parlour. He didn’t mind his mother’s matchmaking too much since he expected that one day he should marry and have children, although at barely twenty-five years old he felt himself far too young and inexperienced in life to offer much to a wife and children. He’d said as much to his parents before, to a nod from pa and a sigh from ma, and a gently worded explanation of how it’s good to be able to speak pleasantly with young women to avoid nerves when the time comes. Perhaps, he mused, Helena Rhyne would be a reasonable prospect since she was presently a good five years away from becoming a bride. Could he make something of himself in five years? Ten at a push?

He thought he could. Possibly in five, definitely in ten. But the expectation that he would be a good prospect soon enough for a young lady of Helena’s position did not sit comfortably on his bones. Perhaps, he decided with an internal smile, he would prove insufficiently pious for the Pastor. In which case he ought to go to church more. He stacked his lunch dishes for Sarah to collect, put on his outdoor boots, looked at the weather and decided he did not need a coat, and went for a walk.

It was warm out, warm enough that Andrew was glad not to have encumbered himself with a coat. He rolled up his sleeves and paused to admire the industry of the men working on the construction of a new building near the courthouse. With a start he realised that, underdressed as he was for polite society, he probably looked much like one of them himself although his slender build might give him away as an impostor. For a moment he entertained the fantasy that he worked in the kind of physical labour that endowed these men with strong bones and enviable musculature. He wondered how they lived. Going home to wives and children? In barrack huts like soldiers? Not, he realised, in the kind of modest luxury of his parents’ house with its separate bedrooms, scullery ruled by Sarah, comfortable parlour and mahogany dining table big enough to seat eight.

He blamed his reverie for the fact that he walked right past Pastor Rhyne’s church and found himself looking across the square at the chapel instead. A stooping, round-shouldered, black-clad man shuffled slowly out and waited, fanning his face with his hat, thin white hair revealing glimpses of pink skin between the strands. Behind him appeared another figure, similar in dress but as different in bearing as Andrew could imagine. The second man was tall and lean, with jet-black hair swept aside to frame a sharp-featured face. Andrew watched as the younger man helped the older to a seat by the door, then walked over.

“Father Macdonald,” Andrew called, a smile ready on his lips. “How are you today?”  
The old man smiled up at Andrew. “I’m as well as can be, thank the Lord.” He craned his neck to peer at his younger assistant. “This is Andrew Henry. It is his parents who have kindly invited us to dine with them this evening.”  
“Oh!” The younger priest turned his gaze on Andrew. “That is indeed kind. Thank you.”  
“You can thank them in person later,” Andrew said, looking into hazel eyes shaded by dark brows.  
“Oh, Brother Garupe decided he has more pressing matters to attend to.”  
“I will be there,” the younger priest blurted, almost interrupting his mentor. “You were right, Father. The parish bookkeeping can wait until tomorrow.”  
“Brother Garupe, eh?” Andrew stuck out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, sir. I hear you are from Europe.”  
A pained look flitted across the younger priest’s face as he shook Andrew’s hand. “Portugal originally,” he replied. “Macao, then Japan.”  
Andrew’s eyebrows shoot up. “Japan! You must have such stories to tell! My parents will want to hear everything.”  
“Ah, well.” Father Macdonald shifted in his seat and pulled Andrew’s attention away from Brother Garupe’s haunted, handsome face. He lowered his voice a little. “I hoped to speak with your mother before dinner but perhaps you can carry a message for me?”  
“Of course, Father. Anything.”  
“Francisco finds it painful to talk about his experiences in Japan. I would consider it a personal favour if you would ask that the subject is kept away from the dinner table.”  
Andrew raised an eyebrow at Francisco Garupe but the younger priest seemed lost in thought. “Of course, Father. I’ll see to it.” He shook hands with the old man then smiled at Francisco. “I hope you’re hungry. Sarah is making roast lamb. The house smells divine.”

With a flash of a smile at both men, Andrew turned and walked back the way he came. Behind him he heard the familiar sound of Father Macdonald chanting his prayers and, after a short delay, a deeper, stronger voice joining in.

Andrew found Sarah in the scullery chopping vegetables. He imparted his news about Brother Francisco Garupe with barely suppressed excitement in his voice and eyes filled with concern. Sarah promised to pass the information on when ma came for a final check on what time to have her guests seated at table. Then Sarah promised that she would not forget such an important piece of information regarding their guest’s comfort. Then Sarah suggested politely that perhaps Andrew might prefer to go to the tea house in town, disturb his mother’s meeting with her sisters to discuss their latest news magazine that arrived from New York City just this morning and tell her himself.

Being a young man of good sense, Andrew retreated to his own room. He still had plenty of time, but he laid out his good clothes, brushed specks from his deep blue velvet coat, checked that his linen shirt and breeches had no stains, felt the stiff texture of the high collar that was the latest fashion, smoothed a crease from his cravat, and considered polishing his boots. His thoughts drifted to the tall priest with dark hair and a mysterious past, and he realised with a flush of embarrassment that his vanity might be measured and held against him.

If he chose to bathe and neaten his hair before dressing, that was not vanity but cleanliness, and his mother would approve.

Andrew dressed with care and joined his mother in the parlour a full half hour before even the most punctual of guests were likely to arrive.  
“Sarah told me you met Father Macdonald’s new assistant today,” she said, shaking up a cushion and placing it at a more pleasing angle on the long sofa. “And not to mention Japan.”  
“That’s correct,” Andrew replied with a relieved little sigh. “Did she tell you I asked for Helena to be placed opposite me?”  
“So that you can admire her beauty.” Ma looked at him directly, then raised one eyebrow and quirked a smile. “Don’t worry. I know you’re not ready to find a wife. Be nice and talk with her. She’s nervous around young men and ought to get used to conversing with them.”  
Andrew looked surprised. “I see!”  
“Yes.” Ma laughed at his expression. “She is joining us for her benefit, not yours. She will have you and Brother Garupe to guide her in conversation. Be kind.”  
“Of course.” Andrew’s new smile was genuine. “Subjects befitting young ladies and clergymen only.”

Pastor Rhyne, his wife, Maud, and young Helena arrived perfectly on time and, by the time greetings had been made, health had been enquired after and coats had been taken, Father Macdonald and Brother Garupe were on the stoop with blessings to bestow. Sarah nodded to ma to indicate that the table was ready, with the roast lamb taking pride of place and the other dishes arranged around it within reach of the guests, and a fire to chase any hint of evening chill from the air. As the most senior guest, Father Macdonald accepted the honour of offering a prayer of thanks before dinner, then Henry Senior carved the lamb.

“What dinner customs do you have in Portuguese society, Brother Garupe?” Andrew asked as he held a dish of braised carrots for the younger priest to serve himself.  
“I would be pleased if you would call me Francisco,” the man said, taking the dish and performing the same service for Maud on his other side. He turned back to Andrew. “Much the same, I believe, although I grew up in the church from a young age and I was sent to Macao before I was old enough to receive invitations to such splendid dinners.”  
On Andrew’s other side, Pastor Rhyne nodded. “I doubt you would eat so well, with your vow of poverty. Is it true that you Jesuits are rich yet you own nothing personally?”  
“Ignore him, Francisco.” Father Macdonald’s voice may have been weak but his hearing was sharp. “Johannes, tell us how you came to be a Pastor in Pennsylvania instead of a shipping merchant in Amsterdam.”  
The Pastor’s cheeks reddened and he smiled thinly. “Perhaps another time.”

“Well now,” ma’s voice soothed. “The meat is served, our plates are full and thanks have been said. I believe it is time to pour the wine.” She looked to her husband. “I sent Sarah home. Would you do the honours?”  
Henry senior smiled and rose, fetching the wine decanters from the sideboard. He poured for ma and offered the choice of decanters to Maud, who shook her head. Father Macdonald accepted the red and Francisco shook his head with an apologetic smile.  
“Good man,” Pastor Rhyne said with a smug smile as he turned Helena’s glass upside down to prevent Henry from giving her even the slightest splash. “Alcohol is the ruin of good men. And good women, too, yes! It is the devil’s drink. Satan’s piss.”

In the silence that followed, Andrew lowered his head and sucked his lips to keep from giggling while Maud and Helena glared at the patriarch of their household as if willing the ground to open and swallow him up. The silence was broken when Brother Garupe said, polite and clear, “Thank you for your hospitality, sir. May I have a glass of the white?”  
“I’ll have the same,” Andrew added quickly, then he looked across at their youngest guest. “Helena?”  
His playful grin was met by a look of shocked disbelief, then he winked and Helena sniggered. “No, thank you kindly,” she said, with a glance and a smile at her father. “Although I am sure a small glass would not lead to my untimely death from prostitution, disease and poverty, I think it best not to take that risk.”  
Maud glared at her daughter now. “Helena! That is hardly a matter for discussion at the dinner table.”  
“Well then,” Henry Senior said, clapping the pastor on the shoulder, smiling brightly at Maud and placing the decanter of white wine in front of Andrew. “You two can look after this one and Father Macdonald, your mother and I will look after the red.”

The lamb was roasted to perfection in Andrew’s opinion and Francisco asked him, then reminded him, then made him promise, to pass on his thanks to Sarah who had made all of the dishes under whose weight the table groaned. Each guest helped themselves, or asked a neighbour to help them, to the dishes they liked best. Andrew fetched sautéed green beans for Helena then stood and stretched to bring an extra slice of lamb to Francisco as soon as he had finished his first, telling him to put more meat on his bones. He kept Francisco’s wineglass filled and, occasionally, remembered to include Helena in their conversation about how Portugal and Macao differed from each other and from Fayette county. Helena remembered to ask abut the young gentlemen’s future plans and even feigned interest when Andrew talked about perhaps heading west to see what opportunities waited for him there.

Francisco listened, though, and asked about what opportunities Andrew thought might capture his interest.  
“Anything, really,” Andrew said, leaning a little closer, away from the Pastor’s dour presence. “Fur trapping, mining, anything that will provide an investment for the future.”  
“So it is riches you seek?” Francisco asked with a smile. He laid a warm hand on Andrew’s forearm, resting half on and half off the table. “It seems that everyone is in search of material wealth.”  
Andrew looked at the hand on his arm, felt its weight and its warmth, the electric tingle where Francisco’s long, slender fingers brushed the back of his wrist. “Material wealth keeps food on the table,” he said, turning his head to smile at Francisco. “And wine in our glasses.”

Andrew shared the last of the wine between Francisco’s glass and his own, lifted his glass and nodded at Francisco to do the same. Francisco laughed and moved his hand from Andrew’s arm so that he could raise his own glass too. “To fine food, firm friendships, and future opportunity.”  
All around the table lifted their glasses and then sipped, even Maud and Johannes who had water, and Helena after her father nudged her elbow.

Toast over, glasses set down, Andrew rested his hand on the table again but Francisco did not take the invitation to touch. Disappointed, Andrew finished his main course and set about making sure everyone could reach the sweet dishes of candied and dried fruits and nuts that sat here and there. When he took his seat again and selected a few pieces of candied orange and sugared almonds for himself and Francisco to share, raisins and and brandy-soaked cherries for Helena, he felt the weight and warmth of Francisco’s hand on his thigh. He looked sideways at the young priest but Francisco merely glanced and smiled and nibbled delicately on a morsel of sweet orange. Perhaps, Andrew thought, customs are different in Portugal. Or Macao. He crunched a sugared almond then slipped his own hand under the drape of the tablcloth to rest on top of Francisco’s.

Once everyone had eaten their fill and, if they were all to be honest, a little more, Henry Senior suggested that European manners dictated that the ladies should retire to the sitting room while the gentlemen continue their conversation over port or sherry in the dining room. His wife looked at him with good humoured indulgence and shook her head, but the pastor declared that they would not take up any more of their host’s precious time.

Father Macdonald got up too. “Brother Johannes,” he said, affecting a more pronounced stoop and a more awkward shuffling gait than usual. “Would you be so kind as to deliver me home too? Brother Francisco should remain, if he wishes.” He looked at Andrew and smiled. “He is new to us and I believe it would be a benefit for him to socialise a little more with this good family.”  
Andrew’s heart soared and he could not put words to the reason for it. Francisco, a little red in the cheek from the fire-warmth and the wine, smiled openly at his mentor.  
“That’s settled, then,” Ma said. “Brother Garupe, you are welcome to stay as long as you desire. Andrew?”  
“Yes, mother?”  
“Come and say goodbye to the good Father and the Rhynes, then I’m putting our remaining guest into your hands.”

Andrew held Helena’s coat for her to slip her arms in more easily and smiled at her. “I hope we meet again,” he said, and she smiled in return. Before long, Maud and Helena walked out to a waiting carriage, a few paces behind the pastor, who had lent the support of his arm to Father Macdonald.  
“Well,” ma said with a trill of a laugh after the door closed. “That was an evening, wasn’t it? Darling, pour me something stronger in the parlour. Andrew, go see that Brother Francisco is entertained.”

Dismissed from his parents’ company, Andrew returned to the dining room where Francisco stood looking uncertain.  
“Perhaps I should also depart,” Francisco said. “I do not want to outstay my welcome.”  
“Nonsense! You are most welcome company,” Andrew said with a smile. “Please, let’s refill our glasses and find a subject we can talk about.”  
Francisco looked grateful. Andrew shifted the dishes around to make space for their elbows on the dining table and fetched a cover for the scant remains of the roast.  
“There,” Andrew said with satisfaction. “We can sit around the end of the table and converse.” He looked at Francisco and chewed his lip for a few seconds. “You must know what I want to ask you about.”

Francisco shook his head and sighed. “No. You may ask me more about my memories of Porto and Lisboa, of my family, of my brothers in Macao, of my time here with Father Macdonald. Nothing else.”  
“Please.” Andrew placed his hands flat on the table between them. “Accept my apologies for upsetting you.”  
Francisco covered one of Andrew’s delicate hands with his own, dwarfed it, added the other and cocooned it. He shook his head. “You have nothing to apologise for. Thank you for this evening. It is as if my previous life has gone, as if Brother Garupe starved and drowned in Japan and here sits Francisco, a different man in a different world.”

Andrew raised his eyebrows at Garupe’s words but said nothing because he could think of nothing to say. Instead, he lifted the decanter of red wine with his free hand, swirled the small amount that remained, and cocked an eyebrow. Garupe nodded and smiled, and Andrew poured for them both.

“Tell me instead,” Andrew said, looking at the wine in his glass, “why you became a priest.”  
Francisco smiled and squeezed Andrew’s hand before releasing it. “That story is easy, and similar to what Father Macdonald has told me of of your Pastor. I was the fourth son of a family that could only support three. I entered the service of our Lord as a boy. Don’t be sorry for me, I found I had a vocation. I was single-minded in pursuing my path, my opportunity if you like, saving souls for God’s glory. And now I am here.”  
Andrew nodded. “I see,” he said, more as an indication that he had heard than that he had understood. “I am to make my own way in the world,” he added after a moment. “Set up some business or other. I should be ready for whatever opportunity presents itself. Further west I could raise some money by fur trapping and invest it in mining. This is a rich land and I do not intend to be poor.”  
“And I have been vowed into poverty,” Francisco said with a smile. “We are opposites, you and I. And yet I feel—“

Francisco stopped and set his glass down. Andrew, seeing that Francisco was without a drink and not wanting the man to leave—desperate that he not leave yet—fetched the port from the sideboard and offered it to Francisco. The priest laughed.  
“I should not. I am not used to such indulgence.”  
“You’re safe here,” Andrew replied with warmth. “What is the worst that might happen? A hangover? You can stay for the night if Father Macdonald will not need you.”  
“Well.” Francisco, head swimming with the effects of the wine and heart bursting with his desire not to leave Andrew’s company, shrugged and set his glass down within reach of Andrew’s aim. “I should not. But should and will are not the same.”

Andrew laughed softly and quarter-filled Francisco’s glass then his own, mindful of the strength of the sweet fortified wine but heedless of the drops that splashed onto the cream linen and would cause Sarah to scold him for carelessness tomorrow. “You and I have led such different lives,” he said. “You have travelled the world, experienced so much of life. I have been here, planning and daydreaming.”  
“I have also experienced so much of death,” Francisco replied, then immediately looked contrite. “I spoiled the evening. I am so sorry.” He took Andrew’s hand again. “I am a terrible guest. I should go.”

Andrew’s other hand came over to cover Francisco’s. “No! I mean,” Andrew gnawed at his lower lip and forced himself to look into Francisco’s eyes. “I’m grateful that you are here. I appreciate your company, and your honesty. I am deeply sorry for whatever experience has scarred you, but I will not demand that you relive it for me. Tell me instead about... Porto. Macao. What makes you happy, Francisco?”  
Hazel eyes lit amber by the fire met his grey-green and he smiled. Francisco’s return smile heated the room more than the embers in the hearth ever could.

Andrew heard his parents’ voices and released Francisco’s hands. The door creaked open but only a voice came through.  
“Andrew?”  
“Yes, ma?”  
“The parlour is free, should you wish to be more comfortable. The lamps are out but I left you a candle.”  
Andrew flashed a frown but smoothed it away. “Thank you, mother. Goodnight.”  
After a few tense moments, when the creak from the staircase ended, Francisco said, “Am I outstaying my welcome? your parents have retired for the night.”  
“No, no.” Andrew smiled as the wine loosened his tongue. “They’re larks, not owls. You may go, of course, if you desperately want, but if you ask me again if you _should_ I’ll think you must be bored of my company and eager to leave. I want you to stay. Sit and talk in the parlour. Drink sherry or port and when we are both tired of each other’s conversation, sleep in my room with me like a brother might and I‘ll see you home to Father Macdonald in the morning.”  
Francisco offered Andrew a smile that warmed him from within. “In that case, thank you for your kindness. I will stay.”  
This time, when their eyes met, it felt like an age before Andrew looked away and said, “This way.”

The parlour was small but comfortable, and Andrew was grateful that the entire party of eight didn’t try to use it all at the same time. He waved Francisco toward the sofa and studied the contents of the drinks cabinet.  
“Sherry or port?” he asked. “If you say sherry, there’s Fino or Oloroso.”  
“Oloroso,” Francisco replied. “But just a little. My head is spinning. It reminds me of raisins, drying in the sun at my parents’ farm. I used to steal them, one at a time, pop them in my mouth and laugh at how good they tasted.”  
“Oh-ho!” Andrew grins at Francisco. “The priest is no stranger to sin. Theft? Gluttony? What was your penance?”  
Francisco laughed and the sound made Andrew’s heart swell. “No priest is a stranger to sin, Andrew. We hear the sins of others, and we balance them with a penance. I have many sins. Father Macdonald knows them all, and I know his. And we are absolved of those sins.”

“So,” Andrew says, sitting close to Francisco on the sofa, “it’s only the sins that have not been absolved that we should worry about?”  
Francisco sipped his sweet sherry, closed his eyes and hummed quietly. “Why do you ask,” he said after a minute. “Do you want me to hear your confession?”  
“No! No, Jeez, I’m sorry, no.” Andrew sighed. “I say the wrong things. I didn't mean to be disrespectful.”  
Francisco smiled at him. “I believe you. But if there is ever anything weighing your heart down, you can come to me. Anything.” Their eyes met in candlelight. “Anything at all.”  
Andrew’s face stayed serious. “I can think of no one better to trust with my failings. Is that what you want from me?”  
Francisco went quiet again then reflected Andrew’s words back to him. “Is that what you want from me?”

The two men held eye contact for seconds that felt like minutes or hours.  
“No,” Andrew said eventually, and Francisco echoed his word. “I want you to stay. that’s all I want from you. I can’t say more than that. Will you? Stay?”  
Francisco nodded. “Yes,” he said quietly, shifting inches closer. “I will stay with you, Andrew.”  
Andrew’s breath caught in his throat. He felt as if his heart might stop. If Francisco would only kiss him he might die a happy man.  
“Um,” he said. “Ah. Francisco, you have taken vows, yes? I have not, but you have.”  
Francisco nodded. “I broke one of the most important ones in Japan, not to take my Lord’s name in vain, not to deny my Lord. And another... not to kill. I caused the deaths of innocents with my stubbornness, Andrew. What is _this_ ,” he said, waving a hand in the scant space between them, “in the shadow of _that_?”

“Francisco,” Andrew said softly, unsure of what to say after. So instead of speaking, he took Francisco’s free hand and clasped it in his own.  
Francisco smiled. “We are not so different, you and I. People expect me to be pious and pure, serve the Lord. Your family expects you to marry, serve the family name. I could not be without sin even surrounded by men all in service of God. I could not remain without sin when called upon to... I chose to save my earthly life rather than guarantee my everlasting one. What am I to do, Andrew?”

Andrew closed his eyes and breathed for a minute. When he opened his eyes again, Francisco was watching him with a half-frown that crumbled what little resolve he still possessed. With a soft expression, Andrew raised his hand to cup Francisco’s face, leaned in and kissed him once on his lips. “Do what your heart says is right,” he murmured. “No one has the right to demand more of you than that.”  
“I think,” Francisco replied quietly, “I should sleep.”  
Andrew laughed and combed his fingers through Francisco’s hair. Surprised to find it soft and wavy once freed from its severe style rather than slicked down with oil, he ran his fingers through it again.  
“Very well,” he said. “We will sleep on the thorny issue of what resides in Brother Francisco's heart.”

Andrew led Francisco out of the parlour, down to the kitchen and scullery to drink water and fill a jug for later, to show him where the water closet was in case he was not familiar with the luxury. Then Andrew took his hand and led him silently upstairs, over the creaky stair, to his bedroom.  
“Do you mind sharing?” Andrew asked. “I can fetch blankets and a pillow and sleep on the rug if you prefer. The bed is yours either way.”  
“No,” Francisco caught Andrew’s hands in his. “There is room for two.”  
Andrew smiled and leaned closer. He reached in to capture a kiss and caught it briefly. Francisco smiled against his lips but did not move.  
“To sleep, then.” Andrew undressed, hanging each garment tidily. Francisco shucked his black garb to the floor then folded it onto the chair. Andrew pulled a clean nightgown out of a drawer and held it out, making a show of turning his back whilst Francisco removed the rest of his clothes and put it on. Andrew slipped his own nightgown on too, while Francisco watched from the edge of the bed.

“Move over,” Andrew said, and Francisco moved over. Andrew slid under the covers, feeling unreal, wondering if his mother and father knew, suddenly understanding that they must know him and not judge. “I might,” he murmured close to Francisco’s ear, “put my arms around you when I am asleep. Would you mind that?”  
“Not in the slightest,” came Francisco’s sleepy reply. “Do it now, if that makes you comfortable.”  
Francisco shifted and Andrew let his head rest on Francisco’s shoulder, Francisco’s arm around his back, his own arm across Francisco's chest. He shuffled his hips back enough that should his cock betray him, already half hard, Francisco would not feel it and be shocked.  
“Goodnight, then,” he said, barely breathing in Francisco’s ear.  
“Mmm. Goodnight,” came Francisco’s reply.

Sleep did not take him gracefully like it usually did. Andrew tried to remain still in case Francisco thought him an inconsiderate bedfellow, but after a few minutes the priest sighed and turned to face him, a moonlit glint in his eyes.  
“Am I keeping you awake?” Andrew murmured.  
“No.” Francisco kissed Andrew’s forehead and stroked his hair. “Yes, but not through any fault of yours.”  
“Yes?” Andrew caressed Francisco’s sparse beard. “You can’t sleep because I am here?”  
“I don’t want to sleep yet.” Francisco nuzzled into Andrew’s hand and kissed his palm. “Do you?”

Wide awake now, the haze of alcohol clearing enough to allow sensible thought, invigorated by half-formed visions of what Francisco might be hinting at, Andrew gazed into the greys and blacks of Francisco’s eyes and murmured, “No. I’m unable to sleep.”  
“Kiss me again, then,” Francisco replied, his words quiet enough that the walls would not carry them. “I want you to.”

Andrew needed no further invitation. His lips met Francisco’s, kisses light, aimless and gentle at first, then with more purpose as Francisco’s lips parted with a sigh and the point of his tongue swept Andrew’s upper lip and sent a tingle down to his groin. Francisco rolled onto his back, pulling Andrew on top of him. Any hope Andrew had held on to about Francisco not noticing his tumescence vanished as the hard length of his cock pressed into Francisco’s hip. Francisco rolled his hips once and Andrew realised that Francisco was similarly afflicted. He stifled a giggle by burrowing his face into the crook of Francisco’s neck. Francisco laughed softly and pulled at the cotton of Andrew’s nightgown, hitching the hem up. Andrew raised himself a little to allow the fabric to bunch above his waist. He pulled at Francisco’s borrowed nightgown too, but gave up at the first threat of a ripped seam, lay on Francisco then rolled them both over almost to the edge of the bed.

With Francisco above him, it was easier for Andrew to ease the smooth fabric higher. He stroked his hands over the twin swell of Francisco’s buttocks and kneaded his flesh gently. Francisco’s lower lip vanished into his mouth and reappeared, slowly drawn out between uneven white teeth, while Francisco stifled a hum of pleasure and rocked his hips against Andrew’s, Francisco’s cock sliding beside his own, the mental image of their actions providing Andrew with almost as much of a frisson as the friction of the touch.

“Are you sure about this?” Andrew breathed into Francisco’s ear, then nipped and sucked at the delicate shell.  
Francisco pressed his face into the pillow beside Andrew’s head and gasped at the sensation. “Yes,” he said. “I want this. I want you.”  
Andrew slipped a hand between their bodies and trapped both of their cocks against his own belly. Francisco did the same, then set a slow, deliberate rolling of his hips that felt to Andrew like it was igniting sparks in his groin and in his brain. He wasn’t going to last long like this, but it was going to leave him tingling and warm and calm, and Francisco would still be in his bed afterwards.

Andrew lay convinced he would never sleep again, but when his eyes opened there was light streaming through the curtains and a dark-haired, hazel-eyed, serious face watching him from the other side of the pillow.  
“Good morning,” Andrew said, feeling a smile pull at his lips. “Did you sleep well?”  
Francisco smiled back and his brow relaxed. “Better than I have in a long time.” Francisco leaned close and kissed Andrew once then rolled out of bed and started to dress.  
Andrew propped himself up on his elbows to watch. “You’ll stay for breakfast? Mother will want to see that you survived the night.”  
Francisco shook his head. “I will offer my thanks and apologies. I may not eat until after I have performed morning prayers with Father Macdonald.”

“Ah.” Andrew rose from his bed and dressed in his everyday wear. “Not even Sarah’s coffee?” Francisco shook his head. A look of horror settled on Andrew’s face. “Do you have to confess? Do you have to tell Father Macdonald what we did?”  
Francisco’s eyes sparkled and he grinned. “I can only be absolved of sin if I am contrite. I have no feelings of remorse or regret about this.” He held out a hand to Andrew. Andrew took it and Francisco pulled him close, held him for a few seconds, then kissed him and left the room.

As he finished dressing, Andrew heard Francisco say a cheerful thank you for your kindness and goodbye to ma. After the front door closed, Andrew went downstairs and into the dining room where coffee and bread waited for him. He was not sure exactly what the future held for him, but he hoped and prayed that Brother Francisco Garupe would always be part of it.

He would certainly be attending church more frequently and with a smile.


End file.
